Exploring new ways of seeing, new ways of being with an open heart and an open mind

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

The Last Rose of Summer

Yesterday, while I was out collecting zinnias for next summer's seed, I noticed that, despite all the other flowers having been hit hard by several nights of frost, a small bud was forming on one of the smaller rose bushes - a tea rose, I believe. So today, I went out and took its picture. A light rain was falling. There's something about a rose balancing beads of rain on its soft petals ...

"It Is Raining on the House of Anne Frank"

It is raining on the house
of Anne Frank
and on the tourists
herded together under the shadow
of their umbrellas,
on the perfectly silent
tourists who would rather be
somewhere else
but who wait here on stairs
so steep they must rise
to some occasion
high in the empty loft,
in the quaint toilet,
in the skeleton
of a kitchen
or on the map--
each of its arrows
a barb of wire--
with all the dates, the expulsions,
the forbidding shapes
of continents.
And across Amsterdam it is raining
on the Van Gogh museum
where we will hurry next
to see how someone else
could find the pure
center of light
within the dark circle
of his demons.

Such a beautiful shade of pink. Our roses are still blooming...red and pink. They stared so early in spring and are going so late. I told my husband we may have roses in the snow : )The poem is a haunting, rainy day of tourists.

The beauty of your late summer rose, washed so fresh and clean, is so strongly contrasted against the feelings of sadness that thoughts of Anne Frank brings. I have been on those steep stairs, peeped into that loft - now I don't know why I did - the sadness that I felt then came back so strongly with this poem ...we need more roses in our world.

Oh... very cool poem. I have not heard it before or the author. The last rose is so precious. Its value bring deeper meaning to summer's end.. as if the rose bush was making a last wonderful attempt to be its true self before the dormancy of Winter.Lovely photo.

Your rose is so precious, Teresa, and just your title and the sight of the rose's intense beauty brought a tear to my eye. The poem brought more. A sadness at mankind. You have a most sensitive and remarkable ability to marry pictures with words that stir the emotions. Thank you.

What a lovely water laden rose bud! Ann was like a rose bud that never reached bloom.Van Gogh seemed to focus more on the rain and thorns.YOu do manage to pair up interesting poems with your photos, lady! ;)

A painfully good poem. And a beautiful flower, though sadly seasons last. I'm with you on those beads of rain balanced on petals. Magic the way they rise in form atop the surface.

I usually avoid places where strong sad or bad things have taken place. That lingering weighted essence of feelings and events can immobilize me. And then there are places like the old home of Fechin in Taos, where the love and craftsmanship left in its wood seemed a counter weight to some of its sad history. Just before descending the stairs, I whispered to my husband my urge to swing round and down the anchoring center post, like his daughter must have done again and again. At the bottom of the stairs an older woman stopped me, seemed to smile with knowing and softly said, “you may if you wish”.

Embarrassed at being overheard, I returned the docents smile, said “thank you but I couldn’t” and headed for the gallery out back. As we were leaving I mentioned the woman in the house and was told it was Fechin’s daughter Eya. She still found light in a place where darkness could have had the upper hand. Hugs,Chris

Jenny, It was its bravery tinged with sadness that spoke to me most of all.

LadyCat, Roses in the snow. Wouldn't that be lovely?

Marilyn, I appreciate that you've been there, on those steep stairs. I have not, only in my mind, and can only imagine the sadness that rests on those stairs. Yes, we need more roses.

Will, Those lines are powerful aren't they? Thank YOU.

TM, Lynn, Buddy is even bigger now, but he and I had to come to an agreement. I offered him, and he accepted, a small area at the end of one of my rock gardens. He was allowed to do some pruning, digging, and generally lying around the cool rocks. It worked out pretty well. Thanks!

Chris, You once mentioned that many magical things have happened on your visits to Taos, and what a wonderful experience you've related about your visit to the Fechin house. That you discovered it was his daughter who invited you to swing down the post....wow. Thank you so much for telling me/us about it. Life often seems to require that we find the light, even in great darkness. Thank you, Chris. I hope you're having a good week.

Sad to think not many blooms will be around. I clip rose hips for tea.One year after many years of zinnas from collected seed, they returned to the parent plants and were all pink, with scraggly blooms. I should grab a few myself.

Hard to believe you're having frost already...the summer just breezed on by. The last rose seems to be to be determined to give you pleasure. Kind of sad to see them go. Hope you get an October Indian summer with a few more of those pretty pinks sneaking in there.Thanks for the poem.

Hej! you're busy, eh? `)The rose is always a miracle, whether it is the first or the last, but maybe the last makes you a little sad. Autumn is near and what then? If winter comes........Anne Frank's name makes me so sad. I cannot forget that little face of hers,and the poem brings memories of her gruesome fate. It's one of the saddest stories about a child from those five years of WWII. Grethe